


A Discerner's Guide to Alchemy

by BlushingNewb



Series: The Adventures of Sherlock of High Rock, Consulting Discerner [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alchemy, Alternate Universe - Skyrim Fusion, Explicit Sexual Content, Footnotes, M/M, Romance, Sequel, absolutely no one takes an arrow to the knee, have tried to keep those unfamiliar with Elder Scrolls in mind, soon to be an interquel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 08:35:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7260325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushingNewb/pseuds/BlushingNewb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the writings of Archivist Jo’Bhishnubi, 5E 93, Imperial City:</p><p>As they descended from the refuge of the Greybeards, Sherlock of High Rock and his faithful companion, Ioxannes (John) Watson encountered the heralds of a mysterious foe. This brief account details the duo’s battle with these new enemies and their preparations for the journey ahead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Discerner's Guide to Alchemy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anarfea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/gifts).



> The events in this short piece occur directly after those in “Beyond Tundras Bitter and Dragonfire’s Brand.” It describes Sherlock and John’s encounter with new villains in the village of Ivarstead, at the foot of The Throat of the World. The pair also take a detour to one of Sherlock’s boltholes for potion-making. I am planning a full sequel with Miraakarty and I hope to release it later this summer. The explicit rating is completely justified here, so please be aware of that. 
> 
> This is a gift for Anarfea :)

**From the writings of Archivist Jo’Bhishnubi, 5E 93, Imperial City:**

As they descended from the refuge of the Greybeards, Sherlock of High Rock and his faithful companion, Ioxannes (John) Watson encountered the heralds of a mysterious foe. This brief account details the duo’s battle with these new enemies and their preparations for the journey ahead.

* * *

**_Recorded_** **_by Ioxannes Watson, also called John, 4E 201, after our visit to The Throat of the World_ **

_The Greybeards confirmed for us beyond a shadow of a doubt that Sherlock was Dragonborn, the first in many an age. They asked us to retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller from its depths in Ustengrav. To that end, Sherlock and I decided to return to Riften to obtain provisions for the long journey to Hjaalmarch Hold. We ventured down from the mountain back into Ivarstead, and after stopping by the Vilemyr Inn we were waylaid by ruffians. We didn't know it at the time, but these opponents were the first sign of one of Sherlock's most troublesome puzzles._

"You there! You're the one they call the Dragonborn?"

John and Sherlock turned around sharply; they had just paused beside the rushing water to review their map. Two masked figures stood before them with crossed arms.

"Some may call me that, though I prefer to answer to Sherlock, Consulting Discerner. And who might you be?"

"Then it is too late. The lie has already taken root in the hearts of men," the woman on the right responded. John crooked his head.

"Sherlock has told you the truth - he can use the Voice. What business do you have with us, anyhow?" John asked. His eyes widened as the man on the left turned his palm upwards and kindled a strong Shock spell. Without thinking, John pulled Sherlock to him and cast a Greater Ward on them both - he couldn't tell how strong the aggressors were, but the flared masks they wore had intricately carved tendrils and appeared to be entirely constructed of bone.

The woman raised both her hands and stepped forward, screaming with fury, "Your blood will flow in Miraakarty's name!" She fired off two Ice Spikes in rapid succession, and after her second shot Sherlock ducked away and lobbed off a strong Firebolt that caught her in the middle. He then engaged the second enemy with a Chain Lightning spell and out of the corner of his eye, John saw the mage's body shake. John ran toward the woman with his shield raised. His buckler was only enchanted with a weak resist magicka spell, but he knew from experience that the best way to defeat a mage in earnest was to charge them. He bashed her over the head to stun her and keep her off-balance, but she was strong and parried with what must have been a Frost Cloak.

John felt as though his veins were filled with ice, as if he were pummeled by a harsh wind on a glacial summit, as if an ice wraith had slithered down his throat, tearing it open on its way down. He heard Sherlock let forth a startled shout in the distance, and he came back to himself in a rush, shaking his head. John slashed downward, twice, three times, until the woman fell backwards with a wet thud. The woman's blood covered his arms and chin, but John hardly had time to think of that before he was lifted off his feet and into the river. He landed in the water sideways with a harsh slap, and scrambled furiously to gain footing.

The second Mage stood where he had just been, but John emerged from the water in time to see Sherlock Incinerate him. All but the unknown mage's mask caught on fire, and his gurgling screams were awful and joined by the sound of his blood boiling up from his gut. The time that the assailant had taken to use a Whirlwind Cloak against John had cost him his life. The man had clearly misjudged that Sherlock was the weaker opponent because of his dodging and acrobatic jumping.

Moving with more awkwardness than John had ever seen from him, Sherlock ran to the river and hauled him out with one arm. To John's complete surprise, Sherlock summoned a weak healing spell and cast it over him.

"What?" Sherlock asked, noting the stunned expression on John’s face.

"It's just - I didn't know you could do that."

"I've been training. A good Discerner should use every opportunity to branch out."

John smiled up at him and wrapped him in an embrace. "You did a good job," he praised.

"I did, didn't I?" added Sherlock, holding John close to him.

"Don't get too modest,” John said, rolling his eye. “It would be too much of a contrast from your usual charming demeanor."

Sherlock laughed and rubbed a hand through his own curls, but he grew quiet and bent down to the female mage's corpse. He pulled a tattered letter from one of her pockets and read it quickly.

John wrinkled his brow and stooped to face his friend. "Who or what is Miraakarty?" he asked.

Sherlock stood, and his blank expression gradually resolved itself into one of eagerness. As he looked to the northwest, to the Eastmarch many leagues away, his eyes shone with a frenzied delight, a grim mania, and John felt both anticipation and dread creep through his body.

"Something new," Sherlock replied, grinning broadly.

* * *

_After we encountered hostile forces serving the mysterious Miraakarty, I realized that we would be pushed to one line of inquiry or another - was it to be dragons or the so-called Dragonborn? My friend often oscillated between multiple conundrums at a time, but he acknowledged that in this instance, due to the vastness of Skyrim, we would be obliged to prioritize. The human element greatly captivated Sherlock. There was a lead pointing us to Solstheimº - that place where my own forebears had once explored. Together, we concluded that the information we might glean from this other claimant, this other Dragonborn, might aid us in the larger battle against Skyrim’s returned dragons. Before we departed from Ivarstead, Sherlock recalled that some of his alchemy reserves were depleted, and we set forth on a quick southward jaunt to one of Sherlock’s handful of bolt holes¹._

“Wormwood,” Sherlock said, breaking the hours-long quiet that had settled on them as they made their way through the wilderness.

“Yes, what of it?” John inquired.

“I’ve run short of late and that old fool at Elgrim’s Elixer’s has never even heard of such a thing. We’re headed to a source where I cultivated some seedlings two summers ago.”

“What’s its use?” John asked. “I’ve heard that it’s an ingredient for poisons, but I’m not accustomed to using poisons on my bolts.”

Sherlock assumed a smug smile and John braced himself for a grand display of pomposity.

“Still much to learn, I see. There’s an alchemy bench at the shack, and I’ll have to have you make some potions. If you think you’re up for it, that is,” he said, adding a sidelong glance at John and an upward quirk of his lip. John couldn’t quite tell if he was being suggestive, but decided on taking a risk.

“You know there are few areas I’m unwilling to explore,” John said, giving Sherlock a wink.

“Obvious, John,” Sherlock snorted.

“Maybe so,” said John, “but you can’t deny that I’m at least a quick learner.”

Sherlock gave no reply, but the full flush on his cheekbones was enough of an affirmation that Sherlock agreed with him.

* * *

“Sherlock,” John called softly. As soon as they’d sighted the shack, his companion had rushed over to the tiny back garden in a dither about his wormwood. Sherlock was already in an exuberant mood over finding an empty bear cave absolutely covered with beehives². He had dipped his hand into several different hives, Calming the bees as he went, and John found himself quite distracted by the sight of Sherlock greedily licking his fingers after collecting several combs. The man clearly loved honey, and John loved watching him doing so.

John had been more inclined to caution, so had entered the ramshackle cabin with his short sword at the ready.

Sherlock shuffled up behind him and hooked his chin over John’s shoulder.

“I thought you said this was abandoned,” John said. He pointed at a glass jar with a butterfly flitting about inside it.

If Sherlock was surprised, he didn’t show it. “It is technically abandoned by me,” he said, “so it’s not improbable that someone would come upon it to take shelter. More unusual is that another alchemist would settle in.” Without further ado, Sherlock began rooting around in a collapsed bookshelf.

“Ah-hah!” he exclaimed triumphantly, brandishing a slim red volume. He flicked through the pages but became rapidly disinterested, letting the book fall to the floor.

“Well?” John asked.

“It’s a dull account of his arrival and plans; he no doubt wished to abuse this fine workbench,” Sherlock indicated the set of alchemy equipment in the corner with a careless wave of his hand, “by creating a set of ineffective poisons.” And indeed, as Sherlock had conjectured, John noticed some dark smears on the wood where some harmful concoction had marred it. Sherlock picked up the jar from the shelf and unscrewed it; the butterfly flitted and danced out the window with a farewell flashing of blue wings.

“Where is our amateur alchemist now?”

Sherlock scrunched his eyes together, bringing to life that wrinkle that John loved and admired and wanted to kiss, though he was likely to be chastised for saying such a thing.

“Gone not more than a day or so,” Sherlock replied, lifting the lid of a barrel to peer inside of it. “He took only a meagre amount of food and by all rights should have returned yestereve.” And with that, Sherlock threw his pack to the ground as if the matter were settled.

“Shall we seek him out, then?” John said.

“Why should we?” Sherlock asked. “It’s my dwelling and he fits the description of a squatter in every sense of the term.”

“Sherlock,” John said quietly. “Many folk don’t take kindly to surprises, and we’ve enough problems with more and more dragon sightings on the rise. I’ve no intention of being taken unawares in the night by both man and dragon.”

“Must you be right so frequently, Ioxannes?” Sherlock asked, stretching out the vowels of John’s full name to express the measure of his irritation. Without further ado, he lifted his pack again and strode out through the open doorway of the shack. 

* * *

They found the alchemist not more than a mile away, stretched out in an open clearing, next to a rocky outcropping. There was the heavy buzzing of bees coming from a nearby stand of trees, and it didn’t require John’s skill in healing or Sherlock’s prowess as a discerner to determine that the alchemist had been killed by a bear. Sherlock did explain, though, that the bear’s motive had likely been to defend her cubs, there being no marks to indicate the beast’s hunger.

In silence, they relieved the man of his satchel, which would be added to their collection of belongings from other unidentified bodies. There was always the possibility that these items could one day be returned to the families of the missing. And while John had a great deal of sympathy for the loved ones of these unfortunate unknowns, he was also thankful that these minor mysteries could provide Sherlock with a distraction in the event that he lapsed into one of his dark moods.

John picked up the deceased Nord and followed where Sherlock beckoned. They stopped near a natural outcrop of granite, and John spotted a patch of soft ground. After placing the man on the ground, John dug out a bit of earth from the recess with his pickaxe, and Sherlock stretched out his hand and caused a number of rocks to gather at their feet in a pile. They buried the man thus, and when John placed a final stone atop the man’s cairn, he sang out an ancient rhyme.

 _In the cold, wild Wastes,_  
_Let my tongue speak_  
_this hymn to the winds._

 _I pray for the farmer_  
_That whistles to his dog at play_  
_I pray for the hunter_  
_That stalks the white walkers_  
_I pray for the wise one_  
_That seeks under the hill,_  
_And the mother who wishes_  
_For one last touch of her dead child's hand._

 _I pray that from your heart, from your soil,_  
_Blossoms spring forth beneath tomorrow’s sun.³_

If John noticed Sherlock staring at him with more than his usual intensity, he didn’t mention it. The two of them returned to the cabin in silence.

* * *

John unshouldered his pack with obvious relief once they reached the doorway of the shack. Unbeknownst to Sherlock, he had been hauling around a set of scales from the last dragon they had slain, and they made for an exhausting burden. John had had to forgo picking up a fine bit of venison from the last deer they came across in favor of retaining the scales. Once Sherlock had determined that the dragon bones and scales could not be used for alchemy or magick, he had left them lying where they fell. John, however, had been thinking of a practical use for them.

Dusk was falling and Sherlock was in the tiny garden eagerly harvesting the prickly leaves of the full-grown wormwood plants he had cultivated. John watched him for a short time before turning to kindle a small cooking fire underneath the iron pot. If it were up to Sherlock, John thought, they would simply slice off a bit of dried beef before crawling into their bedrolls, if they ate at all. But if there was cooking gear at hand, John thought, he would take full advantage of it. John quite enjoyed cooking, though Dame Hudson left him little opportunity for it, monopolizing the oven in order to coddle the men with sweetrolls and apple pies.

In no time at all John was able to put together a stew of apples and cabbages, and though he claimed to have little need for food, Sherlock set his herbs aside without being asked and grabbed their bowls and spoons. They sat together on the stoop shoulder-to-shoulder, eating and listening to the song of the wild rift as the sun set.

“Alchemy is an art that should be quite easy for you to refine,” Sherlock said, “although the most sophisticated of potions can only be created by experts.”

“I’m certain it’s on the tip of your tongue to rank yourself among those experts,” John grinned.

With great aplomb, Sherlock stood and adjusted his robes slightly. “It’s only braggadocio if it’s not true. Of course I have made a thorough study of the art, and I can even distinguish the areas of Skyrim where certain herbs have been grown. Some witless fetcher, on the other hand, would tell you that with a loaf of bread and a slice of cheese you could make a stamina potion^. Come inside with me, John,” Sherlock lowered his voice, “and I will show you some of my methods.”

After that John made quick work of tidying their dinnerware, and Sherlock lit two lanterns from the cooking fire before smothering it with a spell. The lanterns gave the cabin a cozy, intimate feel, and the warmth of the day still lingered enough for the men to remove their outer garments. John unstrapped his armor with a sigh, and Sherlock removed his own robe, which even now shone with a subtle violet glow.

Sherlock beckoned John over to the alchemy table with an outstretched hand and a gentle smile. John swallowed, captivated by his friend’s open expression and the emerald glow around the lab equipment. Sherlock had already readied the station for use and had carefully placed several herbs upon the bench.

“Tell me what you see,” Sherlock said.

“Well,” John replied, “it’s the typical set-up. Retort, alembic...calcinator, all ready to go. Where’s the mortar and pestle?”

Sherlock pointed over to the dilapidated bookshelf where a dusty set lay, and John eyed it doubtfully. The mortar had several cracks in it and the pestle was broken in half. Sherlock grinned at him and placed his own mortar and pestle on the workbench.

“My best piece is back at Braidbread Row,” Sherlock said. “There are many places you can buy mortars and pestles, but it’s better to make your own, unless you’re totally incompetent. I wouldn’t recommend you even try, John.” At this last, Sherlock realized that his mouth was still moving along with his thoughts and he shot a guilt-stricken look at John.

“I didn’t…I meant...” he started to stutter, but John chuckled and laid a hand on his arm.

“I think you meant you’re an arse, Sherlock, but go on,” he said with a knowing smile.

Sherlock nodded briefly in contrition and cleared his throat before resuming, still appearing somewhat discomfited. “Well, er, hmm, even with the standard mortar and pestle you use, the healing and stamina potions you make are effective. The ingredients for those potions are also quite easy to find; others, not so much.”

“Yes, I was asking you earlier about the wormwood. I’ve only seen it growing wild in Cyrodiil, and not at all in Skyrim,” John said.

“You were partially correct when you described it as having a poisonous effect - it damages both health and magicka. Crush the leaves with your hands or ingest them and you can feel its sting,” Sherlock explained. “But few people know that it can be used to create invisibility potions.”

“That’s fantastic! I’ve never seen anyone make them in person,” John exclaimed. It may have been a trick of the light, but John would swear that the colour in Sherlock’s cheeks grew higher before he spoke again.

“To make a stronger invisibility potion, just as with any potion, you use more than two ingredients. Ingredients for this potion are rare, though. What do you see on the table?” Sherlock asked.

“Obviously...” John said, rolling his eyes and stretching out one of Sherlock’s favourite words, “there’s the wormwood leaves. Three Luna Moth wings, and…Oh! Vampire dust! Have you kept that all this time?ª” John grinned up at him.

Sherlock reached down for John’s hand and squeezed it briefly before turning back to his samples. He unstoppered the vial of vampire dust and emptied it into the alembic, then gently swept the wormwood and moth wings into the mortar with a cloth. Sherlock gave the pestle to John, using his thumb to caress John’s forefinger.

“You’re going to help me tonight, John. I know I can rely upon you,” Sherlock said, looking into John’s eyes, and John felt the air between them grow charged and heavy with magnetism that had naught to do with magecraft.

John swallowed, and allowed Sherlock to maneuver him into a position directly in front of the table. From behind, Sherlock placed his hands over John’s and guided him to crush the two ingredients together with great delicacy, whispering encouragement and the occasional compliment. John became aware of the slight trembling of Sherlock’s hands and his own heart skipped a beat, but he resolved to focus on the task before him. When John finished grinding the wings and leaves to a fine paste, they tipped the mix into the calcinator together. Sherlock reached in front of John to turn the release valve on the retort, and the vapour from the vampire dust wafted down into the waiting mixture.

“Not long now,” Sherlock said into John’s ear before releasing him to shuffle to the side. They both watched the liquid in the calcinator bubble and then trickle down the narrow channel toward Sherlock. As the potion approached, Sherlock uncapped one of his many enchanted bottles to collect it. John wordlessly handed him two more bottles, and then they were finished, with Sherlock securing the bottles and supplies in his satchel.

John moved as if to pick up the lantern from the alchemy bench, when suddenly, Sherlock gripped his arms from behind and braced both their hands against the wall beside it, high above their heads.

“John,” Sherlock murmured into his ear, trailing warm lips along his neck. “Thank you for your help. I enjoyed...watching your hands at work.” John huffed out a few breaths and a quiet laugh.

“Pleasure was mine, of course,” John said. “It always is,” he continued, deliberately lowering his voice. He was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath from Sherlock. He pushed John’s hands against the wall in a silent command to leave them there, and then used deft fingers to stroke a path down John’s arms to his abdomen, placing one hand over John’s heart and the other at his waist. Sherlock pressed ever tighter against him, and John, well aware of the growing hardness at his back, groaned and felt himself firming in response.

Sherlock placed a series of warm kisses to the sensitive area below John’s hair, lingering a little longer at each stop until he paused at the juncture of John’s neck and shoulder. John tilted his head in an invitation for Sherlock to continue, and with a needy hum, Sherlock sucked at the skin until John hissed and bucked. Sherlock slid a hand down until his fingertips dipped just below the drawstring of John’s trousers.

“My dear, dear man,” muttered Sherlock, breathing heavily. “Only you...the bravest, the kindest, my own knight...I need, please, I…” as Sherlock’s voice trailed off, he reached past John’s waistband to take him in hand. The warmth that finally surrounded John was a relief, and he pressed up to feel those fingers slide against him, to take that friction and own it. Groaning, he felt his member swell and became aware of the slickness that suddenly coated Sherlock’s palm. John staggered closer to the wall and propped his forearms against the boards lest he fall over in his lust; Sherlock quickly followed, rutting desperately against him. With a fervid moan, Sherlock rucked up John’s shirt, adjusted his own trousers and rubbed his newly bared cock across John’s back.

The noises of their pleasure filtered throughout the cabin and their eager motion against each other quickened to a fever pitch. John jerked up into the tight circle of Sherlock’s fist, matching the increasing tempo of his strokes. With a low noise, John began to shake as he felt sensation flare up under his belly and Sherlock pressed his plush lips below John’s ear, mouthing wordlessly. The added stimulation tipped John over the edge and he finished with Sherlock’s name on his tongue. Sherlock held him as he spilled and John felt him quivering with his own need.

Sherlock broke the silence with a harsh gasp, whispering, “Gods, John, I...want...I want...” He released him, and John huffed out deep breaths against the wall, his heart and soul filled to the brim with his lover.

“Sherlock, take it, have me, have _all of me_ ,” John urged.

With that, Sherlock spread John’s seed all over his back and gripped his hips roughly to thrust against him, into the warm wetness he had smeared there, until at last he let out a stifled shout and stilled, frozen in ecstasy.

* * *

John stretched out on the cabin’s small, single bed and reclined on his elbow. Sherlock was curled up on the nearby nightstand, smoking his pipe and staring out into the nightʰ.

“There’s enough space for two, I think,” said John. Sherlock didn’t reply, and for a time, John wondered if he had even been heard, or if his friend had slipped into the Realm of his Mind.

“What do you know of Solstheim?” Sherlock asked suddenly, tamping down the last of the tobacco in the pipe’s bowl.

“Hmm, not much, I’m afraid. My grandam told me tales of my ancestors, of her grand-sire’s grand-sire, who served in the Legion at Fort Frostmoth and was there when the Red Mountain erupted. Even though the island’s closer to Morrowind, it’s supposed to be cold like Skyrim. There’ve been Nords, Imperials, Dunmer living there for years and…”

Sherlock interrupted him. “You know the song you sang, for the dead alchemist? It’s an Ashlander prayer, from lands that no longer exist.”

John chuckled. “Never thought _I’d_ have to repeat myself. I’d said there were Dunmer in Solstheim. My grandam sang me that song when I was afraid of the winds at night - she told me there was nothing to fear in them. There’s this, too,” John said, reaching for Sherlock’s pipe. He tipped a small measure of the burning tobacco ash onto the top of his hand for several moments, then flicked it off. Sherlock grabbed his hand and held it near the lantern.

“You’re resistant to fire!” Sherlock exclaimed. “How did I miss that?” he said, clearly frustrated with himself.

“Only by a very small amount,” John answered. “Not a lot at all compared to a true Dunmer. But it’s amusing to surprise you every now and then,” he said, catching Sherlock’s eye and smiling.

“So you intend to go with me?” Sherlock asked. "There are fires in the southern wastes, strange creatures that wield flame for weapons - more powerful than any flame atronach.”

“If I am not going, I should make every attempt to keep you from doing so as well. We walk into danger together or not at all.”

Sherlock took his pipe back from John and put it away rather quickly, joining John in the narrow bed. He allowed John to shift to a position in front of him, facing the open doorway with his sword in arm’s reach.

* * *

“Sherlock,” John murmured into the darkness, halfway to sleep.

“Yes?”

“There aren’t knights anymore.”

“Yes, there are, John,” Sherlock insisted. He shuffled about in the dark, fumbling a hand under the heavy blankets and removing something that let out a metallic clink. Sherlock curled an arm around John’s chest with a clasped fist. “Take it.”

John reached up to Sherlock’s hand and gripped the object, then sat up to cast a simple Illuminate spell that hung beside the bed. In the blue light, John could see the glow reflecting from a topaz coloured stone and the gold chain that it hung from. He turned to meet Sherlock’s widened eyes, who had also risen from the bed. It seemed that for once, Sherlock was struggling to speak, to find words.

“It’s old, from one of my first cases. She didn’t have any money, and I really didn’t care, but it was important to her that I take it. I’ve kept it, and when I examined it, I deduced that it was made in Morrowind, and it had an enchantment on it that was unfamiliar to me. I studied it for a time, even consulted with Mycrofien, and they best we could conclude was that it was for resisting some sort of disease.” Sherlock took the necklace from John and unhooked it.

“It’s quite unique. It permitted additional enchantments upon it, you see,” Sherlock said quietly. “I’ve placed one on it that’s rare but appropriate, I think. This can now properly be called a Necklace of the Peerless Knight˟. That’s you. John.” Sherlock placed the amulet around John’s neck and he felt the smooth-cut gem settle warmly against his chest.

John was struck by the significance of the moment and felt a heaviness settle underneath his chest. He clasped Sherlock to him tightly and stroked his fingers over soft curls. With great difficulty, John managed to rasp, “the last knights I heard of were all lost.”

Sherlock turned his head into John’s shoulder and said into it, almost inaudibly, “wrong.”

* * *

* * *

* * *

_**footnotes** _

ºSolstheim is part of the second Skyrim expansion pack, “Dragonborn.” It’s a fully fleshed-out expansion that takes place in a new area, an island in the Sea of Ghosts, and it has its own main quest line. If you enjoyed Morrowind, there’s a lot of nostalgia to be had.

 _¹_ I have chosen the following locations for Sherlock’s Skyrim boltholes, in case you would like to visit. A few of them need to have some enemies cleared out. 1) The alchemist’s shack, described here, between Haemar’s Shame and Ivarstead 2) The Wreck of the Icerunner, an Imperial ship run aground east of Solitude 3) Brood Cavern, located high in the mountains southwest of Morthal 4) Left Hand Mine, in the Reach, southeast of Markarth and 5) Clearspring Cave, overlooking the Eastmarch.

²I _love_ beehives. If you’re lucky, you can get honeycombs, bees and beehive husks from them, all of which are good alchemy ingredients.

³Complete text of the song that John sings - John’s version has changed over time to reflect some differences between Skyrim and Morrowind

<http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:Words_of_the_Wind>

^Sherlock is partly incorrect here. In Oblivion, you can make Restore Fatigue potions with 100% success by using food ingredients. A friend of mine likes to refer to them as “Elixirs of Ham Sandwich.”

ªFrom Chapter 1 of “Of Tundras Bitter…”

ʰThere’s tobacco in Oblivion. Again, it can be used as an alchemy ingredient, so take from that what you will.

˟Plus 25 to heavy armor. John technically wears light armor (Skyrim has no medium armor, but that is truly what I feel his expertise is in). The Necklace of the Squire actually grants +25 to light armor, but again, adaptation for the sake of my characters.

ᙾThe Knights of the Nine in Oblivion were featured in an expansion pack there, and in both Morrowind and Oblivion, “knight” was a class that you could choose, and it focused on strength and in Morrowind, a bit of healing. So in calling John a knight, Sherlock is using this term as an honorific, recognizing him for his loyalty and nobility of character. I have given it special significance here because it has fallen out of usage and is by now somewhat archaic.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and thank you for reading - comments are always welcome! I love writing in this series and hope to begin working on the third installment in mid-July.
> 
> Beta credit for the non-Johnlock portions of the story go to my husband, who also loves the Elder Scrolls games and Sherlock. He doesn't love Sherlock quite the same way I do, but is nevertheless supportive of my creative endeavors.


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